


Setting the Bar High

by whelvenwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:26:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1874718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whelvenwings/pseuds/whelvenwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean is dragged to the latest hipster hangout by his best friend Charlie, he doesn't expect to have a good time - let alone want to go back as soon as possible. Charlie can't decide if it's the blue-eyed bartender, or the bad pop music that's tempting Dean to return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Setting the Bar High

**Author's Note:**

> Quick bit of information for people worried about triggers - there is no drunkenness at all in this fic. <3

Dean was not having the best night of his life.

The bar’s lighting was low and blue, the furniture minimalist and tacky, the room hot and airless. Daft Punk was thumping through the speakers, and the raucous laughter of the dancers was overwhelmingly loud.

“Isn’t this great?” Charlie leaned forward to yell in his ear, her eyes bright and excited as she surveyed the room.

Dean nodded as enthusiastically as he could. It was her birthday, after all.

“I’m going to get a drink,” he mouthed, pointing towards the bar. Charlie nodded, clapped him on the shoulder and moved out onto the dance floor. Dean watched for a second as she began to jump in time with the beat; before long, a few guys and girls had gathered close to her. She was beaming as she pulled one of the girls closer. Dean smiled to himself and turned away; Charlie would be fine. He could sit down and nurse a beer without feeling guilty for killing the buzz.

When he reached the bar, he slid onto a spindly metal stool and folded his hands on the sticky countertop.

“Welcome to Heaven. Can I help you?” asked a voice, low enough to cut under the roar of the club crowd. Dean looked up to see a tall, athletic-looking guy watching him expectantly.

“Beer, please,” Dean replied. “Cold. Any brand.”

The man nodded and walked over to the cooler. His dark t-shirt was clinging to his body, probably because of the heat inside the club.

“Thanks, man,” Dean said as a bottle of El Sol was placed on the bar in front of him, the brown glass cold to the touch. He looked right into the guy’s eyes as he handed over a few dollars; they were a bright, intense blue, lasering into Dean’s brain like the luminous strip lighting overhead.

“You’re welcome,” the guy replied with a nod. Dean shifted in his seat.

“Busy night,” he commented, trying to keep the conversation going.

“It’s a Friday,” the man explained. “Students don’t have class tomorrow.”

“No, I don’t,” Dean agreed, raising the beer to his lips and taking a sip. “Thank god. It’s been a hell of a week.”

“Oh, yeah?” the guy said, sounding sympathetic. Dean looked down at the counter, smiling.

“Sorry, man. I don’t wanna take advantage of the fact that you're stuck behind that bar with no escape routes, I’m not gonna talk your ear off about essays and lectures and all that crap.”

The man shrugged.

“I’m a good listener,” he said. “They tell me that’s a necessary quality in a bartender.”

“Sounds about right,” Dean replied. “That, and making drinks.”

The guy’s shoulders drooped slightly.

“That is something I find harder,” he admitted. “I am attempting to learn. Balthazar is excellent, he can flip the bottles like  _this_  –” the man picked up a clear glass bottle and threw it into the air, almost missing the catch and knocking over a glass as he fumbled. Barely anyone noticed the noise in the rowdy club, but the guy’s cheeks were redder than the setting sun. It made him look younger – Dean realised that he probably wasn’t that much younger than the bartender, who picked up the glass whilst rubbing his slightly scruffy face ruefully.

“Not very good,” he said, in that crackling-coal voice of his.

“You’re holding it wrong to start off with, is all,” Dean found himself saying, leaning over the bar to pick up the bottle. “Twist your wrist like this, see? Then you flick, and –” he caught the spinning bottle smoothly – “there we are.”

The bartender was smiling slightly, apparently equally envious and impressed.

“You should be the one behind here,” he said.

“Sure,” said Dean, and slipped off his barstool to slide behind the counter.

“You can’t…” the guy began, but then Dean picked up three more bottles and began juggling them, not even looking up but instead watching the amazed expression growing on the bartender’s face.

“Used to work the bar for my dad sometimes in high school,” he said with a cocky grin, replacing the bottles. “Picked up a thing or two. You’ll get it, it’s not hard.”

The bartender ran a hand through his hair, then held it out.

“I’m Castiel,” he said.

“Dean Winchester,” replied Dean, gripping the guy’s hand firmly. It was large and long-fingered, pleasantly warm.

“Say, do you think we could actually get a drink at some point?” called a blond man sarcastically from the other end of the bar. “Or are you just getting paid to flirt with your customers?”

The blush was back on Castiel’s cheeks. Dean stepped back around the other side of the bar.

“Sorry, man,” he said. “Didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

“It’s no problem, Dean,” replied Castiel. “I’d better get to it.”

Dean sat back down on his barstool. Castiel was run off his feet the entire night, so they didn’t speak again until Charlie appeared at Dean’s side, tugging on his arm.

“Time to get back to dorm,” she announced. “Quit brooding over your beer and walk me home, Winchester.”

“I’ll be right there,” Dean said with a smile, indicating the last inch of beer left at the bottom of his bottle. When Charlie had started heading towards the exit, he stood up, catching Castiel’s eye. The bartender made his way over, ignoring the sweating dancers queuing up against the counter.

“Going home?” he asked.

“Yep, Charlie’s done throwing shapes for tonight.”

“She’s your girlfriend?”

“No, no, just a friend. I’m single.”

Castiel nodded, and Dean wondered if he was wishfully imagining the gleam in his blue eyes.

“I hope you had a good night?”

“Well,” Dean said slowly, “it’s not really my kind of place, no offence. But it was OK. Maybe I’ll come back some day, see how your bottle-flipping’s going.”

“I’d like that a lot,” Castiel replied, his tone serious, his eyes sparkling in the fluorescent lighting. “Maybe see you around, Dean.”

**

“We can’t ever go back to that place,” Dean growled the next day over morning coffee.

“We’re going back to that place,” Charlie stated firmly.

Dean smiled. Getting back to Heaven was going to be easier than he’d thought.

“It’s got nothing I like,” he groaned. “The music’s terrible, the lighting is like a surgical theatre, the drinks are awful.”

Charlie menaced him with the metal teaspoon she was using to stir her latte.

“You’re coming, Dean. It’s good for you to get out of your room, breathe the stale club air once in a while. Maybe next time you come, you can actually dance instead of just sitting and making heart-eyes at the bartender.”

Dean scowled, and Charlie patted his cheek.

“Of course I noticed,” she said, tilting her head sweetly. “He’s cute, you should go for it.”

Dean knuckled his closed eyelids. This was  _exactly_ the conversation that he’d been hoping to avoid. He’d barely spoken to Castiel, and thinking about it too much or talking about it with Charlie would only increase his expectations for what might happen – expectations that were sure to be dashed.

“Whatever,” he mumbled. “I probably won’t even come. When are you going?”

“Next Tuesday,” Charlie said.

“Probably won’t come,” Dean repeated.

**

The club was still hot and loud and obnoxious, but slightly less so on a Tuesday night. Dean glared at the blue lights, at the DJ in his booth, at the bar. His expression softened slightly when he saw Castiel cleaning cocktail glasses with a cloth, but then he set his lips firmly.

 _Never gonna happen, Winchester_ , he said to himself as he walked over.  _He’s probably twenty-six, has his own apartment, paints on the weekends. Has a partner. Remembers quotes from movies that make everyone laugh when he says them. Knows seven foreign languages.  Isn’t interested in a no-hoper nineteen year old like ­_ –

“Hello, Dean,” said Castiel. “What’s on your mind? You look very pensive.”

“I was… wondering about you,” Dean said, deciding on honesty. After all, the guy was never going to be into him, so why not relax about it?

“Me?” Castiel looked taken aback. “What about me?”

“You know, your age and stuff. I figure you’re mid-twenties, with your own place that you share with your partner. Am I right on all counts?”

Castiel laid down the last cocktail glass and reached down into the cooler for a beer.

“No, actually,” he said. “I’m twenty-three, which does not count as mid-twenties. I do live alone, but my father pays the rent, so it’s not my own place. And I am single, so I believe that’s zero marks.”

He put the beer down in front of Dean, who nodded in appreciation. Justin Timberlake started playing through the speakers. Dean winced, but Castiel began tapping his fingers on the bar in time with the beat. Out on the floor, Dean could see Charlie dancing with the same girl she’d met last Friday.

“Okay,” Dean said, a competitive grin on his face. “Strike-out on that one. Let’s see if I can do better this time: you’re a movie buff, you speak a bunch of other languages, and…” Dean swallowed. “And you’re not interested in me at all.”

Castiel paused in his finger-tapping.

“You’re right about one thing,” he said, and Dean’s heart sank like a stone dropped into cold water.

“Oh, yeah?” Dean croaked, wondering if he could play the whole thing off as a joke.

“Yes. I speak French, Italian and Greek.”

Dean allowed the words to settle, like jewels cushioned in the palm of his hand.

“So – uh, so that means you –” he broke off. Castiel glanced up at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a warm smile.

“Tell me more about yourself, Dean,” he said, as more people started arriving. “I can’t talk much tonight, but I can listen.”

So Dean talked. He told Castiel about his home – the smell of baking pie, the scruffy old furniture, the warmth – and about his family, about Sam, how smart his kid brother was. He mentioned his car in passing, and then had to tell the whole story – how he’d found her, dusty and beaten-up in his dad’s old garage, and had decided to fix her. He spoke about his course, how hard it had been to save up the money for college, how much he loved being here and making the kind of friends that he’d never thought he’d be lucky enough to find.

“They’re so supportive, you know? Of… of everything about me. Stuff my friends at home didn’t really like about me.”

Castiel nodded, his eyes full of warmth and understanding, as he drizzled vodka into a cocktail glass.

“Whoa, wait. Didn’t that guy order a mojito?” Dean asked quietly, so that the guy wouldn’t hear. When he looked more closely, Dean realised that it was the same blond man from last week who had snarked at the pair of them.

“Yes,” Castiel replied. “Why?”

“Mojitos don’t have vodka. It should be white rum,” Dean explained. He reached over and tapped the correct bottle with one finger. “Dare you to flip it before you pour it.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes.

“I’ve been practising,” he said, throwing the bottle up, catching it and pouring the drink in one smooth movement. Dean whistled appreciatively, at the same time as the blond guy said,

“Now  _that_ is attractive.”

Dean gripped his bottle, and properly looked at the man for the first time. He was tall and ruggedly handsome, with an arrogant tilt to his chin and a strange twist to his accent – British, Dean thought. He glanced over at Castiel, but he seemed not to have noticed the compliment, pouring his mixture out of the cocktail shaker and back into the glass, topping it with a sprig of mint.

“One mojito,” he said flatly.

“Thank you, Cassie,” replied the man sweetly, turning back to the dance floor.

Castiel picked up the nearest glass and began polishing it with an almost brutal determination.

“You know that guy?” Dean asked, trying to keep his voice light and normal.

“Unfortunately,” Castiel replied. There was a pause. After a few seconds, he sighed and went on, “we went on one date. It didn’t end well. We had different expectations.”

“Oh,” said Dean. “Cas –”

“I’m very busy,” Castiel snapped.

“Right, yeah. I’m just gonna…” he tailed off, pulling out his phone. He scrolled down his messages without really seeing them; in the corner of his vision, Cas was moving bottles around with an unwarranted ferocity and muttering to himself. He was readying himself for a further assault, laying his phone down on the bar and opening his mouth to speak, when Charlie came bounding up to him.

“Dean, my friends have this killer trick that you just  _have_  to see. And then we’re going on to another bar where apparently, they have those flaming cocktails! They’re on  _fire_ , Dean! Come on!” she seized Dean by the arm of his jacket and pulled him off his stool, through the bar and out into the night.

Dean’s phone sat placidly on the bar until Cas picked it up a few minutes later.

**

“Hello?” Dean called, standing outside Heaven in the rain at one in the morning. “Anyone here?”

“Dean,” said Cas with a smile, pulling open the doors of the club. “Come in. You’re here for your phone, right?”

“Yeah. Sorry I left it,” Dean said, stepping inside. The club was almost closing; the last few couples were swaying in time to old 80s ballads.

“I’m not,” Cas said. “It means I get to see you again tonight, and apologise for earlier.”

Dean’s heart thudded. The fact that Cas even thought that he was worth apologising to was incredible.

“I reacted badly because Balthazar upset me,” Cas said simply. “I didn’t intend to upset you. I hope we can still…”

“We can,” interrupted Dean, sparing Cas the trouble of labelling whatever was happening between them. “It’s fine, Cas. You don’t need to apologise to me.”

Cas frowned.

“I absolutely do,” he said sternly. “And you should think so, too. You can’t let people walk all over you. You’re better than that.”

Dean stared at Cas for a long moment, while  _Alone_ by Heart played in the background.

“Wanna dance, Cas?” Dean asked on impulse.

“Dance?” Cas asked, bewildered, but Dean was already taking his hand and leading him through the spilled cocktails and streamers littering the floor, linking his arms around Cas’ waist and pulling him close. After a moment, Cas slipped his hands up to meet around Dean’s neck, and they swayed slowly in time with the music. Neither spoke.

 _How do I get you alone?_ sang the radio.  _How do I get you alone?_

When Dean got back to his room and checked his phone, he scrolled down his contact list to find a new one had been keyed in.

 _Cas of Heaven_ , read the entry. Dean fell asleep with the memory of Cas’ hands, his scent, and his low, chuckling laugh filling up his brain to brimming like warm, spiced tea.

**

Dean tried to keep away from Heaven for as long as he could. He lasted nineteen hours, for which he felt he deserved some kind of award.

The atmosphere in the club was better than usual, Dean thought as he entered. It was a busy night, but Cas was doing great, wowing the customers at the bar by juggling the glasses and making increasingly-complicated drinks.

Dean strode up to the bar, and Cas held up a finger to his waiting customers.

“One moment, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, and stepped over to where Dean was leaning over the bar. He kissed Dean chastely on the cheek, just like he had at the end of last night’s dance. “I hoped you would come tonight, Dean.”

“Who needs to write essays?” Dean said with a smile. He felt more self-assured than he ever had done before, with Cas’ eyes resting on him, his chapped lips pulled into a smile.

“I’ve got to work,” Cas murmured, moving close so that Dean could hear him over the blaring music. “But later?”

“Later,” Dean confirmed, stealing a kiss on Cas’ cheek, enjoying the rough feel of Cas’ scruff against his lips. He sat down at his usual barstool, watching Cas work, occasionally whooping when there was an especially impressive catch.

“It’ll never work, you know,” said a drawling voice. Dean turned to see the blond guy – Balthazar, Cas had called him – leaning up against the bar.

“What do you mean?” he demanded roughly. In his peripheral vision, he saw Cas glance in their direction.

“I mean, it’ll never work. You can stare at him all you want. The man is a waste of time.”

Dean felt his throat close up. He must have misheard, right? Surely.

“I’m sorry?” he demanded.

“I said, he’s a waste of time. He might be sexy as hell, but he’s a complete prude. When I finally convinced him to go on a date, he completely froze if I so much as touched his hand. Have you seen the latest Disney movie? I’m thinking of nicknaming him Elsa, see, because he’s a total Ice Queen.”

Dean put his beer down calmly. He stood up, breathing deeply. And then, with total serenity, he punched Balthazar in the face.

The man collapsed off his stool, one hand pressed to his eye, the other flailing for balance.

“What the hell?!” he shouted. “I was just –”

“You ever talk about Castiel like that again,” said Dean, still completely composed, “and I will break you. Leave.  _Now_.”

**

“ _Hello?”_

“Hey, Cas.” Dean was lying in bed in his boxers and a t-shirt, phone pressed to his ear.

“ _Dean.”_

“Cas, I know it’s late, are you –”

“ _I’m awake, Dean. What is it?”_

“I was just thinking about you.”

 _“Thinking about me how?”_  came the reply, and Dean could swear he heard a sly note to Cas’ voice.

“Just, the things that Balthazar was saying. I want you to know that I don’t care. We don’t have to kiss, or date, or even hold hands until you’re ready. I’m sorry if things have already been moving too fast…”

“ _Dean, Balthazar is a creep. He’s nice enough in some ways, but he’s a total creep and he bullied me into going on that date. It’s completely different with you.”_

“It is?” Dean asked, staring up at the ceiling.

“ _Yes. I like you, Dean. If you were here…”_

“Yeah?” Dean asked, smiling in the dark.

_“I’d make you a pie.”_

“Cas,” Dean said softly, “next time I see you, I’m gonna kiss you.”

**

Heaven was absolutely packed; it was a Friday night, and it seemed as though the whole of Dean’s college had turned up at the same club. Dean pushed his way inside, fighting the tide of people making for the dance floor and heading instead for the bar. He shouldered his way past the customers clustered around the counter, stepped through the gap to where Cas was standing. He reached out and grabbed Cas’ shoulder, spinning him around; he hesitated for half a moment just to admire Cas’ face, the music and shouting fading to nothing, before leaning in and pressing his lips firmly against Cas’. Dean vaguely registered the sound of breaking glass and catcalling as he brought his hand up to cup Cas’ cheek, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the soft stubble. Cas slowly opened up the kiss, and Dean made a low, involuntary noise that seemed to come from his very core. Cas tasted like mint and apples, with a hint of vermouth.

“You been trying out your ingredients, Cas?” Dean asked, pulling back, running his fingers along the underside of Cas’ jaw.

“I couldn’t resist,” Cas replied with that small, familiar smile, reaching behind him to produce a cocktail glass filled with a green, enticing liquid.

“What have we got here?” Dean asked, accepting the glass.

“Apple Pie Cocktail,” Cas replied. “On the house, since you kissed me so nicely. And now, I’ve got to work.”

“Want a hand?” Dean asked, taking a sip of his cocktail and grinning. “Hey, this is great!”

“Thank you, Dean. Of course, I’d love you to help,” Cas replied, “if you think you can keep up.” He flipped a bottle over and over in his hands.

“It’s on,” Dean said, rolling up his sleeves. “Prepare to be taken to school, Cas.”

**

Four years later, Cas threw a bottle across the length of the bar. With barely a glance, Dean caught it and poured.

“One Tequila shot,” he said, pushing it forward. “You take care, now.”

He wiped down the counter, feeling Cas approach and turning to face him with a soft smile. It had been two years since they’d bought this place together, and Heaven was now looking distinctly more paradisical. There were comfy sofas in secluded nooks for talking, good records played every night, and an unrivalled bartending staff.

“Wanna dance with me, Cas?” asked Dean, pulling his fiancé in close. Cas rested his forehead against Dean’s, his eyes closed. Dean ran his hands through Cas’ dark hair and down over his shoulders.

“Always, Dean,” Cas replied, his smile blissful and perfect.


End file.
